La-la-la, my master is a singer,
Who looks triumphant as she speaks the words
People say they're worthless, ordinary songs;
It's a tale from when we were still happy...

All day she's in a staring contest with her desk,
Writing out the sounds in her head
Happy things, sad things, detestable things,
Painting them all together on sheets of music

When you're in a song, you can go anywhere, you can be anything;
Say, to the dark side of the moon, or to the ends of dreams
And as she plays a melody, for someone she hasn't yet seen,
Even knowing it won't reach...

Now, it's time to strain your voice and sing
Of loneliness, of warmth, to forget it all
But when morning comes, it'll be as ever
See, for another day, the night turns to dawn...

La-la-la, my master sings a song,
And little by little, comes to sing less
From time to time, she holds me as if in remembrance,
Looking satisfied as she speaks the words

"I have nothing more to sing," she cried on some nights,
Yet said "They really sung my praises!" on joyous others
If I could have just one wish, I'd bring things back to then;
I'd like to sing a silly song...

"Say, to strain my voice and sing,
It's made me tired, if only a little..."
She closed her eyes tight, but just underneath,
She couldn't hold it in; she cried her tears...

If it's something you desire,
Then let's celebrate it wholeheartedly
A toast to new departures,
Even if I'm not there...

However, master seemed to think of something,
And suddenly she rose;
"There are still things precious to me I haven't yet sung,"
And she took me in her hands...

La-la-la, my master is a singer,
Who looked triumphant as she opened the case...

Now, it's time to strain your voice and sing
Of loneliness, of warmth, to forget it all
And when morning comes, it'll be brand new;
Yes, brand new days, and they'll go on...